by Debra Cowan
"That would be a good guess, yeah."
She swallowed hard, eyes wide with fear. "The man responsible for killing my father?"
"Probably." Mace wasn't pulling any punches this time around. He had to know if she could handle the potential danger. If she couldn't handle this, she definitely couldn't handle a trial.
She folded her arms tight against her. "Oh, boy. I don't feel so good."
* * *
Chapter 5
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When Mace had told her he suspected someone of tampering with her brakes, she had nearly crawled out of her skin. Fear ticked against her nerves.
She'd known going to the police would be risky, but she had thought she wouldn't have to worry until the trial. And now…
"Devon?"
"What?" She blinked, bringing Mace into focus.
His blue gaze was sharp with concern and worry. "Are you okay?"
"Yes." She didn't want to tell him how frightened she was, but she'd learned that getting things out in the open was the way to handle them. "I'm still a little shaken."
"That's normal."
Strangely, that reassured her somewhat. They walked into her small brick-and-frame house. Multicolored rag rugs splashed vivid color against the warm golden wood of her floor. She flipped the switch next to the door and the overhead light flared to life.
Immediately Mace turned his head, his sharp gaze skipping over the plaid sofa and blue-striped wing chair to check out the corners of the room. Nothing seemed out of order to Devon's practiced eye, and some of her shaking calmed.
Her gaze followed Mace's straight through the living room to the back door, which led out of the tiny kitchen. A small round table and four chairs sat undisturbed in the breakfast area. The roses from Carol's garden still bloomed in their vase on the table.
Seeing the familiar things, a sense of calm seeped through her. Mace moved into the room, taking a quick look in the kitchen, then stepped back into the hallway. Seemingly satisfied that they were alone and safe, he returned to stand in front of her.
"Do you want to call your mom? Or … anyone?" He glanced around again, though whether to find a phone or to avoid looking at her, she didn't know.
He was referring to Josh, she knew. Was he wanting to know the extent of their relationship? How much of her earlier conversation had he overheard?
She tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, her attention caught by the fatigue that lined his eyes, his mouth. Her gaze lingered on the strong lips now flattened in concern. A short time ago, he'd almost kissed her. She almost wished he had.
"If I call Mom now, she'll hop the next plane, and there may not be any need for that. I'll wait until we know something. No need to cause undue worry."
Devon sounded calm, even to herself, but her nerves were raw.
He watched her carefully, as if afraid she might shatter at any moment. "That's a good idea."
She realized then that Mace hadn't thought her capable of handling the possibility that someone might have caused her accident. Hurt jabbed at the realization, but why should she be surprised? Hadn't she broken their engagement because she couldn't handle threats like this?
If this was a threat, she reminded herself, cautioning herself to wait until Mace received a report from the lab before she jumped to conclusions. Despite her slight irritation at being ordered to spend the night at his place, she reluctantly admitted it was the smartest, safest thing.
"I'll get some things together." She stepped around him to move into the bedroom.
He nodded, jamming his hands in his back pockets.
She remembered how impatient he was about waiting and hid a smile. Trying to keep her mind from the possibility that someone might have deliberately cut her brake lines, Devon opened a drawer in her bureau and removed underwear. "How's the new house?"
With an effort, she kept her voice light. The house Mace had planned to build had once been a joint effort between the two of them, a dream for them both.
He stuck his head in the doorway. "What house?"
"The one you were going to build." She came out of the closet, robe in hand, and faltered at finding him at her bedroom door. He leaned against the frame, his gaze resting on the antique brass bed in the center of the room.
His features hardened and he dragged his gaze to hers, measuring. "Never built it."
His flat tone tugged at her rioting emotions. The two of them had planned the house together and yet she'd assumed he would still have built it. A lump wedged in her throat and she felt suddenly caged by his intense scrutiny.
She turned into the adjoining bathroom and collected her toothbrush along with various toilet articles. "Sorry, I didn't know."
"Yep, still in the same old place," he informed her breezily, and her throat tightened.
What on earth had made her bring up the house? He'd probably destroyed those plans, soon after she'd destroyed the ones for their life together.
A knock sounded on the front door and both of them turned. Mace seemed as eager as Devon to leave behind the awkward tension between them.
They reached the door at the same time, and he blocked her way until he glanced out the peephole.
"Go ahead," he said gruffly, stepping back and jamming a hand into the back pocket of his jeans.
Devon opened the door and smiled at her neighbor, though she wondered how Mace would react. She knew by the flushed excitement on Carol's face that she'd recognized Mace's car and now wanted to know what he was doing here.
"Hi, Devon!"
"Come on in." Devon opened the door wider and stepped back.
Her neighbor came inside bearing a foil-covered plate. "I just brought over some banana bread— Mace! Why, hello."
Her gaze shot from Mace to Devon, then back to him. Balancing the plate in one hand, she stuck out the other. "How are you? It's been a long time."
Her innocent game might fool Mace, but Devon didn't think so. She squirmed at Carol's obvious pleasure at finding them together.
Mace kept his gaze carefully averted from Devon's, but grinned as he hugged the other woman. "Hi, Carol. How have you been?"
"Fine. I thought that Mustang looked like your car."
Her gaze darted between them, openly curious until she spied the bandage on Devon's forehead. Then she frowned. "What happened?"
"It's nothing." Despite the dull throb in her head, Devon smiled, touching the bandage gingerly. "I had a small accident as I was leaving school."
"But if Mace is here—"
"Carol, it's really—" Mace interrupted.
Devon's neighbor held up a hand. "I know. It's none of my business, but if something's going on with Devon, I'd like to know."
Mace chuckled. "Actually, I was going to say it's really all right. She's fine, according to the doctor."
"Does it have to do with those memories of your father? You didn't have another episode, did you?"
"No, nothing like that." Devon hugged her friend. "Look, Carol, everything's all right."
"But something's going on." Her brow puckered. Devon glanced at Mace, but his bland gaze offered no directive. "I can't tell you what's going on, but Mace is here and everything is under control."
"You're here as a police officer?" There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice.
"Yes," Mace answered gruffly. "How are the boys?"
"They eat like horses and they're into everything." She turned to Devon. "You'll let me know if there's anything I can do? Stay with you. Take you somewhere. Do you need to borrow our extra car?"
"Not yet, but if I need something, I'll call you."
"Well, then." Carol looked from one to the other again. "All right, I'm going."
She pushed the foil-covered plate at Devon and opened the door.
Devon felt more than saw Mace's smile.
Carol turned and her gaze raked over both of them. "It's good to see you. The two of you," she added pointedly.
Mace's jaw tightened and heat flushed Devon's ne
ck. She closed the door and hurried past him to place the plate of food on the kitchen counter.
"She's still the same, isn't she?" Mace asked quietly.
"Yes." Devon wondered if he felt as raw and trapped as she did by Carol's obvious pleasure at seeing them together.
A strange look passed over his features, striking in its poignancy, and Devon's chest tightened. "That's nice," he said, then shook his head as if returning to the present. "She looks great."
Devon studied him, surprised at how easy he sounded when she knew Carol's visit had to have been as uncomfortable for him as it had been for her. He turned to her, arching a dark brow.
"I'm almost ready." She hurried past him into the bedroom. "I knew she would notice your car right off."
"It won't cause problems, will it?"
"Problems?" She stepped out of the bedroom, carrying her small, overnight travel bag.
"Yeah. You know, with, uh, the bean counter."
"His name is Josh," Devon told him crisply.
Mace shrugged. "Yeah."
"There won't be any problems with him."
"How's your head?"
His voice was husky, and sensation stroked up her spine. "Still tender. It'll be better by morning." She hoped that this business with her car would be cleared up by then, too.
"Yeah."
They were tiptoeing around, trying to avoid the obvious tension that crept between them like an insidious fog. They were alone in her house, where they'd laughed and played and made love. Surely Mace remembered, just as she did.
Did he also feel this tightness in his chest, as if he couldn't get enough air, this irrational sense of anticipation? She tried to tamp down the feelings. After tomorrow, her life would go back to the way it had been without him, and she'd probably not see him again until the trial. A sense of loneliness pierced her at the thought, but she shoved it away. He had never needed her the way she'd needed him. That didn't seem to have changed.
She switched off the hall light and walked into the front room. "I'm ready."
He was already holding open the front door and she preceded him outside, waiting while he locked her door and double-checked it. The fierce concentration on his face sparked a flare of heat down low in her body. He'd often looked at her the same way, especially when they made love.
She swallowed and turned away, shielding her eyes from the late evening sun. If she kept remembering their past, how were they going to get through this night together?
* * *
Devon walked inside Mace's small apartment and was struck by the sameness of the beige walls, the worn couch, the tan recliner. Her gaze snagged on a photograph of him with his two brothers in hunting gear.
"How are Sam and Linc?"
"Oh, for brothers, they're okay," he drawled.
She glanced up, grinning at the familiar answer.
His face closed against her and his voice was tight, reluctant. "They're fine."
He put her bag in his room, deaf to her insistence that she sleep on the couch.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze moving around the apartment. "Do your parents still live out north of Edmond?"
"Yeah."
She found comfort in the knowledge that some people lived the same life they had a year ago. "How's your aunt Micki?"
"Fine." Mace leveled a flat stare at Devon as he moved back into the room. Obviously he was neither comforted nor reassured by her questions.
She looked away, her gaze resting again on the mantle where several framed family photos stood. She realized now there was something different. Two photographs were absent. One had graced the mantel, one the end table next to the sofa. Both of her. Both gone.
A wave of loneliness washed through her. "So, why don't you tell me about this guy you're looking for in connection to Dad?"
He eyed her speculatively. "You sure?"
"Yes."
"He runs the biggest drug operation in town, plus gambling and prostitutes. Every time we get close to him, he sees us coming. He shuts down long enough to avoid the heat, then he's back in operation again. I know he killed your…"
"My dad. It's all right. You can say it." She rubbed the tight muscles in her neck. "I've certainly practiced enough."
Again Mace studied her, then gave a curt nod. "He did kill your dad. And I'm gonna nail his butt."
She wanted to know about Martressa. She should know about him, but too much had been resurrected today. Though swamped by loneliness and a degree of hopelessness, Devon still recognized that stirring of defiance, of anger she'd been feeling lately. "I hope you do," she said forcefully.
After a light supper, she stood quietly as he pulled pillows and blankets for himself out of the hall closet. She had taken a painkiller, but her head throbbed unmercifully and she said good-night.
As she closed the bedroom door behind her, the events of the day swept over her in a rush of fatigue. She sagged against the door, closing her eyes briefly. She was here, with Mace, where she'd thought she'd never be again. And all because someone might be trying to kill her.
It was almost too incredible to imagine. The possibility flirted at the edges of her mind, but she couldn't quite make herself believe the truth of it. She was a jumble of confusion and apprehension.
Lifting her head, she pushed away from the door and moved to the middle of his room. In the last twenty-four hours, she had gone from worrying about her reaction at seeing Mace to being glad he was with her. Now she was back in his bedroom.
Things looked exactly the same, from the plain navy comforter right down to the blue-and-white-striped towel draped over the back of a corner chair.
She could smell the musky heat of him, see his change scattered on top of the bureau. A crime novel lay facedown on the nightstand.
Feelings and thoughts piled in on top of one another. Overwhelmed with reminders of Mace, she still couldn't escape that haunting question: what if someone had deliberately cut her brake lines?
A long time later, as she lay in his bed, comforted somewhat by the heady masculine scent of him, the question circled through her mind. Hours ticked away on the clock like the slow drip of a faucet—grueling, taunting, cruelly dragging.
She wavered between believing her brakes had honestly failed and fully examining the possibility that they hadn't. She didn't want to be alone, but she wasn't going out into the living room with Mace.
Not after that near kiss.
Not when he was on the other side of her bedroom door. Even though they were separated by a year of pain and regret, Devon felt the need to arm herself emotionally.
She couldn't come to depend on him again. Nothing had changed for them and it wouldn't. He was providing protection for her strictly out of duty.
She had no right to ask for comfort. She was no more prepared to be a wife to a cop than she had been a year ago. And Mace could never be anything but a cop.
She didn't want to think about him lying out there, wearing one of those tank undershirts he loved that made him look entirely too sexy. She tried to block the image of him sprawled on his sofa in white briefs, his leanly muscled legs dangling over the end of the couch as she had seen them do so many times.
Unbidden came the memory of his body heat wrapping around her, his strength nestled against her back, reassuring her that everything was all right.
Strangely, she felt comforted, and forced herself to remember that everything wasn't all right. She had to stand on her own now. And she could. Just as she had for the last year.
So why couldn't she forget about the way his warm breath had stirred the hair at her neck or the way his large hand rode her hip in sleep? Every time she closed her eyes, the scent of him filled her. Images of Mace splashed onto the canvas of her mind, vibrant, clear, evoking a deep longing.
So she lay in bed, watching the clock, huddled there like the coward she was, and waited for sunrise. They would be together for only one night. She could handle anything for a night, couldn'
t she?
With a nagging sense of unease, Devon wondered if Mace's protection would have to be extended for more than a night. Depending on what the police lab found…
No sense in speculating. They would know in the morning if the problem with her brakes had been the result of a deliberate act. Then she would know what she had to do about him.
* * *
Mace stood barefoot in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee and a whopper of a headache. He hadn't slept more than ten minutes last night and doubted if Dev had, either.
Even now the image of her accident replayed in his mind. The results could've been so much worse than the scrape on the head she'd received. The doctor had sent her home with pain relievers to use if necessary, but Mace had seen her take only one.
He'd half expected her to want company, even just to sit in silence after she'd asked about Martressa, but she hadn't stirred once she'd disappeared inside her bedroom. He still couldn't get over her asking about the bastard.
As he'd talked about Martressa, Mace kept expecting Devon to shut him up or turn away like she used to, but she had just stared at him with those big somber eyes as fear stole slowly across her features. Her calm acceptance had completely surprised him.
Early morning sunshine flowed through the boxy east window, slanting across the beige tile and cabinets of the small kitchen.
He wore jeans and his undershirt, but had yet to put on his boots. The morning paper lay rolled on the counter beside him and he reached for it, pushing off the rubber band.
She padded into the kitchen, her skin fresh and looking as soft as velvet. She wore jeans and a pink T-shirt. His body stirred at the sight of her. Had she always worn her jeans so tight?
He shifted against the increased current of awareness that surged just below his skin. She looked rested and her eyes were dark green, rimmed with silver.
Bringing her back to his apartment stirred the cold ashes of his heart. For the first time, he noticed how stark and unwelcoming the place was, especially now that he'd removed her photographs. Stepping into her house had ambushed him with all kinds of memories, memories that made him want.
He quickly dismissed the ache in his chest. He was over her. He wouldn't let her do another number on his heart. He was here to do a job. Period. They had separate lives now and he planned to keep it that way.